


For the Sake of One Lost Soul

by muse2write



Series: Tales of the Commanders of the Apocalypse Army [1]
Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse2write/pseuds/muse2write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a tale of the Commanders of the Apocalypse Army. The Horsemen have been stopped for the moment, but there is one thing Ichabod must still do: free his wife. Ichabod/Katrina, Ichabod/Abbie, mention of character death, future fic post 1x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Sake of One Lost Soul

**Author's Note:**

> So, the hug at the end of 1x06 lit my brain on fire with its sweetness and devotion, and allowed me to finish off this piece that had been rolling around in my head. A future fic, and total speculation on my part. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Fox. Ben belongs to me.

 

 

 

            The sun is just rising over the trees, and Abigail Mills is standing on a battlefield. Fog is clinging to the ground, cowering from the sunlight that is turning the sky from gray to pink. Abbie tries to feel some relief at the sight of the sun—salvation—but all she really feels is tired.

 

            It’s been a long night of battling demons (a long two years, really), and she looks down at her boots in dismay. They’re covered in blood—the ground is soaked with it, the grass black and red by turns—and stupidly, she finds herself thinking, _Well, at least they weren’t my favorite pair_.

 

            And then she laughs—bordering on hysterical—because really, _that’s_ what she’s thinking about right now? She’s covered in demon blood, in human blood, she hasn’t showered in a week, she just sent two of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse limping back to their graves, and she’s worried about her _boots_?  

 

            There’s a small sound to her left; Abbie glances that way, and smiles at the tall figure she finds. Her partner and fellow Witness, Ichabod Crane, is facing east, watching the sunrise. His gun is resting against his leg, and his hands are clasped behind his back.

 

            Abbie steps up beside him, watching the orange and red light start to streak across the sky. Ichabod’s staring out into the middle distance, his gaze a little cloudy, and Abbie frowns, concerned. “Crane?”

 

            “There’s something I must do,” Ichabod mutters softly, absently, and Abbie’s concern spikes into fear. She knows that cloudy gaze too well, has seen it too often these last three years. “If you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant?”

 

            With that, he takes three steps to the left, away from her, and crumples into a graceful heap at her feet. His rifle thumps to the ground beside him, but Abbie doesn’t heed his weapon right now.

 

            “Oh, _excellent_ timing, Katrina,” Abbie grumbles, crouching over her fallen partner and drawing her gun from her waistband. Holding it at the ready with one hand, she feels for a pulse with the other. Sure enough, it’s as she feared; steady and slow, a sure sign that he’s fallen into a trance. Pursing her lips, Abbie considers her options. While it’s not the worst place Katrina has brought on a vision (there have been a few where Abbie colored the air blue for the witch leaving Ichabod defenseless like that), the open ground of a battlefield immediately after a bloody skirmish is not the best place. Crane’s tall and skinny, but even she can’t carry him by herself.

 

            “Dammit,” Abbie sighs, then looks up and whistles two long notes. A moment later, the sound of pounding footsteps reaches her, slightly muffled by the fog, and then a lanky figure is rising out of the mist, darker gray against the rapidly dissipating silver. Abbie has her gun up and trained on the man before she hears, “Commander!” The slight British accent reassures her, and Abbie smiles in spite of the situation she’s found herself in, lowering her weapon.

 

            “Ben!” She calls. “A little help?”

 

            The young man breaks into a jog when he spots the prone form on the bloody grass, and he lopes up to her, blue eyes narrowed. He looks strikingly similar to the man unconscious on the ground before her; he has the same facial structure, the same long form. His hair is darker than Ichabod’s, but his lips tighten the same way has he comes to crouch down next to her.

 

            “What happened?” He asks, his bright gaze sweeping the field for possible lingering enemy agents while reaching out to check for a pulse.

 

            Abbie gives Ichabod’s many-times-great nephew a tight smile. “Trance. We need to get him somewhere safe.”

 

            “Right.” Ben nods and whistles the same two long notes Abbie did, but repeats it twice. Men’s voices call back, and then two more appear out of the fog, frowning in concern at the sight of Ichabod’s still body on the grass.

 

            These men are her soldiers (demons can’t whistle) and they know how to obey orders. “The less people who know about this, the better,” Abbie tells them as they load Ichabod into a renovated truck and start towards the hospital. “We won this battle; I don’t want morale low because the commander’s been put in a trance.”

 

            “ _One_ of the commanders,” Ben offers cheekily, grinning as Abbie glares at him. Her displeasure has about the same effect on him as it does on his great-uncle.

 

            “Be that as it may, Lieutenant,” she says crisply to remind him of his place, “the last thing we need is men deserting.” They all sober at that—the army holding back the bulk of the apocalypse is only two hundred thousand strong; pittance compared to the world’s population. They need all the volunteers they can get. Low morale and whispers of things going badly are not something they need right now.

 

            The hospital is reassuringly white and sterile as they’re ushered in—the world may be going to hell, but some things never change—and Abbie leaves Ben and the others to sort out the paperwork and follows the orderly pushing Ichabod on a gurney to an isolated ward.

 

            Abbie settles into a hard plastic chair next to the bed as they begin to hook Ichabod up to the machines. She loosens her Kevlar vest a little, but doesn’t remove it—one too many demons try to kill you in your bed, and you learn to sleep in tactical gear. Ichabod had told her that this trance might happen, but she was hoping they would have more time.

 

            Ichabod’s eyelids flutter, but they don’t open. Abbie doubts they will until he’s finished what he’s started. He mutters something, but Abbie can’t catch it, even from where she is. _At least this ward is private, and set aside for us_. She can be grateful for that. Irving had called in some connections—how, she’ll never know—and their small army now has a place for proper medical care, but also a place where other patients aren’t around to see the strange rituals that might have to occur in order to make sure that someone survives.

 

            Abbie settles back into the chair, and prepares for a long wait. Ichabod is currently fighting the demon Moloch for Katrina’s soul, and although she promised she wouldn’t go with him, it doesn’t mean she’ll abandon him now, either.

 

**_SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH_ **

 

            Abbie’s vigil lasts for the next two days, and by now, she’s pretty sure that the plastic of this chair has molded to her body. Either that, or her body is permanently molded to the chair; she’s not sure which.

 

            Ichabod’s been more fretful this afternoon; Abbie guesses the battle’s starting in earnest. Ichabod’s entire body occasionally tenses, and his fingers clench spastically around hers. She promised him—four eternal days ago—that when the time came and he had to fight for Katrina’s soul, she would be his anchor to their world. So as his fingers clench so hard around hers that she can feel the bones grinding together, Abbie grits her teeth and hangs on.

 

            Ichabod’s sweating, his hair dark and plastered to his head. His shirt is off, his scarred chest exposed. His pants have been left on, but he had told her to remove his shirt, because he said that there might be some wounds that she would be able to counteract. Abbie has no idea what that means, and Ichabod didn’t either, so she chalked up to cryptic Katrina-speak at the time.

 

            Now, she finds out what it means.

 

            There is a sharp, sickening _crunch_ , and Ichabod’s nose dents, as if an unseen hand has smashed it. Blood splatters his cheeks and forehead, and his head turns swiftly to the right. Abbie starts, convulsively squeezing his hand, staring in horror as the muscles in Ichabod’s neck cord tight with the strain, and his entire body seizes.

 

            _What in the hell…?_

 

            The bed creaks as he thrashes from one side to the other, bruises blooming like deformed flowers on his rib cage, one side and then the other. Blood seeps from his lips; he coughs and spits blood as well. The chair’s legs squeal against the linoleum floor; Abbie is on her feet now, trembling with helpless rage.

 

            _I’m going to kill him!_ Whether the thought is directed at Ichabod for his fool’s errand or the demon that is terrorizing him, she’s not sure. She just knows that she is shaking with impotent fury, and she wants to do something.

 

            She gets her chance moments later when Ichabod cries out in pain, his body curling in on itself, trying to protect his chest and stomach. Abbie shrieks as well, his hand tightening on hers until she is blinking away tears of pain. Faintly, distantly, she can hear a commotion outside, but she is too focused on the horror in front of her.

 

            On the left side of Ichabod’s chest, just above his heart, an invisible claw is carving a mark on his skin, etching it in blood. Abbie recognizes the mark of the devil as it grows larger, and her hand flies to her belt.

 

            “No, you don’t!” She snaps, snatching up a vial of holy water and uncapping it, dumping it directly on the wound. She found out several years ago that holy water will stop most demons in their tracks, and do some damage besides. This is holy water from Jerusalem, and she hopes it is enough.

 

            The water sizzles on contact, a raw coppery tang fills there, mixed with the putrid smell of something decaying. Abbie gags, and the invisible claw pauses. Abbie swears she can hear a furious roar in the back of her mind. “ _No!_ ” She snarls in challenge, scrabbling for the knife in her belt. _I’ve lost my parents, I’ve lost Corbin, I’ve lost Jenny, you’re not taking him too!_

 

            Once she had taught him how to properly use a gun, Ichabod had returned the favor by showing her how to handle a knife, and not of the kitchen variety. The one she wields now is a slim and delicate stiletto, perfect for neck punctures and kidney jabs. Uncapping another vial of holy water—what idiot only has one?—she dips the blade in the water and then scores a cross in Ichabod’s chest, right next to the ever-widening devil’s mark.

 

            Dimly, she is aware of the commotion outside, of the wailing of Ichabod’s heart monitor as he struggles under her hand. She pays it no heed, dabbing holy water on his forehead, his lips, and pouring a generous portion over his chest, wetting the sheets beneath. “Please, please, please, please,” she chants, well aware that these are not the correct words, and maybe if the priest was here he would say them right, but they are a prayer nonetheless, and that’s all she needs.

 

            Her frantic chants and the holy water seem to work, and Ichabod subsides. Abbie watches anxiously, but the claw does not mark him again. In fact, as she watches, the sign seems to shrink, and Abbie sinks back in her chair. She would sigh with relief, but she’s pretty sure the fight’s not over yet.

 

            She’s right, because this time, Ichabod screams, a high trailing sound that reminds her of an animal caught in a trap. His entire body convulses, and Abbie lets out a wordless wail, her heart twisting in panic and fear. Three deep claw marks appear, raked across Ichabod’s chest, cruel parallel echoes to the livid purple-red scar of Death’s original stroke, one that has never completely faded.

 

            Abbie is screaming through her tears, furious and terrified, calling Ichabod’s name in a fervent plea as she empties the holy water onto his chest, placing her hands over the wounds and giving voice to every heartfelt prayer that she has.

 

            _Please don’t take him from me…give him the strength to come through this alive._

 

            Finally, Ichabod stops thrashing, and he drops limply onto the bed, chest heaving, sweat and holy water indistinguishable. Abbie’s hands scrabble for a pulse, and when she finds it, she cries, watching his eyes flutter under the thin lids. On their own accord, her fingers brush his jaw. 

 

            Now she’s fully aware of the raised voices in the hallway.

 

            “…he could be having a heart attack!”

 

            There is the _click_ of a gun’s safety being turned off; a warning. Then Ben’s polite, smooth voice. “Commander Mills says they’re not to be disturbed. They’re fighting a demon. So unless you’re a priest or someone who knows how to stop a demon, I’m afraid I can’t let you past.”

 

            “You can see him after they’re done.” This is Rob, a former football player. Abbie can picture him, solid against the doorframe, hulking over the doctor and orderlies. “Otherwise, I suggest you go find some other patients to attend to.”

 

            There is a rude muttering and then receding footsteps. Immediately after, Abbie hears Ben’s voice through the door, a little tremulous after his forced bravado. “Commander? Is everything all right?”

 

            “It’s okay, Ben,” Abbie calls, doing her best to make her voice calm. She almost succeeds, although hers trembles a bit as well. “Damned hellspawn surprised me, that’s all.”

 

            “Do you need anything?” Ben can’t hide his eagerness, the need to do something, and Abbie smiles. He’s come a long way from the boy she met in a school gym last year, cowering and disbelieving after having skewered a demon with a fencing foil.

 

            “Get me whatever holy water we have,” Abbie calls grimly, watching Ichabod twist away from the latest attack, the muscles in his arms tightening as he clutches at the bed, at her hand. “I’m going to drown this place in it.”

 

**_SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH_ **

 

            It’s been six days since they brought Ichabod in, and everyone’s tiring.

 

            Ben and Rob are drooping at their stations, even though they’ve been relieved every six hours by the personal guard assigned to her and Ichabod. That way, no more people than necessary know that Ichabod is vulnerable and incapacitated.

             

            Ichabod tosses fitfully on his bed, murmuring strange phrases that don’t always sound entirely like English, but even that he can’t sustain for long. His soul’s fight has taken a toll on his body, even after being feed through a tube for six days. His cheekbones are sharp in his gaunt face, nearly poking through the dry, papery skin, and his lips are white and chapped. His chest is starting to sink inwards, and always, there is the ever-moving kaleidoscope of bruises and cuts and scrapes. It’s sickening to watch, and even after they’re bandaged and cleansed, sometimes they still reopen again.

 

            Abbie feels like a doll who’s strings have been cut. She sits slumped over in the hard plastic chair. Her body has gone numb, and the plastic actually feels comfortable. She runs a hand across Ichabod’s wrist; this is an hourly ritual. Although the heart monitor _beeps_ reassuringly, she needs her own tactile proof that the man in the bed is not gone. As her fingers grip his warm wrist, she glances down. The bed sheets are constantly dotted with the rust-brown constellations of blood, and Abbie sometimes catches herself idly connecting them into nonsensical patterns.

 

            “Abbie.”

 

            The voice jolts her out of her contemplation of the blood-stains, where she had been tracing the outline of a horse through the cotton. (She hasn’t slept in four days—that might be why she’s constantly hearing hoof beats and flinching at shadows. She knows better, truly, she does.) Irving stands in the open doorway of Ichabod’s room, staring at her as if he’s never seen her before.

 

            Suddenly, Abbie remembers that she hasn’t showered in two weeks, and she probably looks like death warmed over, if not Death himself. (Hah, no, she still has her head at least.) “Sir,” she croaks, wobbling to her feet. For all that she is a commander of her own army by default of divine destiny, she still cannot call him by anything but the title she first used for him. “What are you doing here?”

 

            Irving steps forward, his presence washing into the room like warm bathwater, and Abbie remembers that she’s still not sure what his powers are, or how strong he is. His dark eyes hold hers. “Abbie, I’m here for you.”

 

            She stiffens at that, and he sees it, and softens. “I’m here to take your place,” he clarifies, but that doesn’t trigger any relief. If anything, Abbie grows stiffer. “I’ll watch over him, Abbie,” Irving continues, gently, knowing that at this point, she’s so tired and addled that it’s like coaxing a wild animal. “Go back to camp. Eat, shower. Sleep. Reassure your men that the victory was not a fluke.”

 

            Abbie knows there is logic in what he’s saying, and she finds herself nodding. She doesn’t want to leave, because she promised Ichabod she wouldn’t, but the thought of sleeping on her warm bed in her tent is a powerful temptation. She takes a swaying step forward, and then Irving is catching her elbow and passing her off to Ben, who looks just as exhausted.

 

            The woman stops in the doorway and turns back to Irving, dark eyes solemn. “You’ll take care of him?” It’s phrased as a question, but they both know it’s a polite command, one leader to another.

 

            Irving nods solemnly, and his eyes never leave hers. “I’ll do what I can for him.”

 

            The man waits until the footsteps—one set light, the other heavy—fade from earshot, and then waits several minutes more. He doesn’t trust that Abbie won’t come rushing back in here on some pretense, to make sure he’s doing what he promised. She’s a solid officer and a fine leader, but the last few years have made her incredibly paranoid where Crane is concerned. They rely on each other and are a strong team, but after losing her sister in Africa to War six months ago, Abbie seems to cling to Crane more in times of vulnerability. When Crane is the one vulnerable, it takes extreme conditions—such as now—to persuade her to leave his side.

 

            Irving pulls the hard plastic chair into the corner of the room farthest from the door and settles into it, ignoring the way it squeaks and scrapes against the floor. Closing his eyes, he sinks into himself, going into a light meditative trance. He can’t help Crane physically—it’s not his battle—but he can do something spiritually. With a flick of his mind he raises strong shields around the room, making sure that Moloch is unable to send lesser demons to torment Crane as well.

 

            Irving is not so deep in his own trance that he doesn’t hear Crane when the final battle begins. For all the torment that Crane has gone through in the last six days, crying out and attempting to shy away from the wounds being inflicted on him, the battle he wages now is nearly silent. His lips move in a silent monologue, and Irving watches him through half-lidded eyes, wondering whose case he is pleading.

 

            The entire contest—such as it is—ends with Crane falling limply back onto the pillows, his face slack. Irving comes half out of his seat, worried the man is dead—but n, he is moving again. A far cry from the violence of the last week, his movements are gentle now, tender—and suddenly, Irving can feel the other presence in the room.

 

            Katrina is free, and she is saying a final goodbye to her husband.

 

            Crane moans, but this time, it’s not in pain—it’s distinctly pleasure. Irving turns his chair to face the wall, sinking back into his trance, strengthening the mental barriers around the room, giving the couple both as much physical and mental privacy as he can muster. He ignores the sound of sheets rustling, of Crane’s clothing being removed, and concentrates on keeping them both safe. When it is over, Irving waits until he can no longer feel Katrina’s presence, then discreetly cleans and bathes Crane as best he can. He’s grateful Abbie wasn’t here to witness this—he’s not sure she would have been able to handle the sight of such intimacy after being the sole bearer of the violence against Crane the last few days.

 

            As he watches Crane sleep peacefully for what must be the first time in years, Irving wonders what this struggle means for the war.

 

**_SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH_ **

 

            The hospital doors _swoosh_ open as Abbie steps up to them, and she yawns into her cup of coffee. The four hours of sleep she got were wonderful, but the guilt she felt over leaving Ichabod drove her from her bed to work on reports and handle complaints. Now, she was back, and she fully intended to go to Ben and get a report of what Irving had done last night. The young man had returned to the hospital after dropping her off at camp last night, saying that he couldn’t make her sleep, but he could guard Ichabod for her.

 

            Abbie looks up as a low racket reaches her ears, growing steadily louder as she travels towards the private ward where Ichabod is housed. She pauses for a moment, every nerve alert, waiting for some alarm, someone to tell her what the commotion is all about, and then she hears a voice that tells her everything she needs to know.

 

            “ _Abbie! Abbie!_ ”

 

            Ichabod is bellowing her name, and at that sound, the woman takes off running, dropping her coffee in the process. Some part of her winces as it hits the floor and spills—she knows they don’t have enough extra personnel in this place to clean that up—but then she’s racing towards Ichabod’s room, her heart in the throat. Sounds blur and clog together as she tears past—murmur of nurses, _clicking_ and _beeping_ of machines—and then she is skidding through the open door of Ichabod’s room.

 

            “ _Crane!_ ”

 

            Abbie slides to a halt, barely winded—chasing and killing demons and alternately running from them is great cardio—and stares. For a moment, she flashes back to a moment when they first met, when Crane was in the psych ward. Then, as now, he strains against the arms of three burly orderlies attempting to hold him down. His blue eyes are wild, his hair askew, and he is still calling her name.

 

            Then his eyes light on her, and they glow with such relief that she feels her heart flutter in response. He slumps back onto the bed so suddenly that two of the orderlies, not expecting him to quiet, fall with him.

            “Abbie,” Crane wheezes out from under the two men, and Abbie marches over to grab the two closest men by the back of their scrubs.

 

            “Get off of him,” she snaps, yanking them roughly away. Ichabod winces as they jostles his still bruised—and probably cracked—ribs, but the peaceful glow she noticed when she raced in is still there, and he cannot take his eyes off of her.

 

            “What are they doing in here?” Abbie demands, whirling on Ben, who is standing in the doorway. “Where’s Irving?”

 

            He at least has the decency to flinch away from her anger, chagrined. “He woke up yelling for you, and before I could tell him anything, these buffoons came in and tried to strap him down. I don’t know where Irving is. He didn’t leave past me.” At least, Abbie casts a suspicious glance at the window.  

 

            Ichabod slants an offended glance at his fellow Witness. “The last thing I remember is the battlefield, and then I wake up here, in triage, and no one will tell me where you are.” He shrinks back a little as she glares at him, so like his brother’s descendant that Abbie almost laughs. “I reacted a bit more strongly than was called for, I suppose.”

 

            “Get those idiots out of here,” Abbie orders Ben absently, who clearly delights in grabbing each orderly by the shoulder and towing them out the door. She approaches the bed slowly, reaching out with one hand. Ichabod’s hand reaches out to meet her own, his grip strong and sure as his fingers twine with hers, and she lets him tow her to his bedside.

 

            “I thought we decided that you weren’t going to do anything else stupid,” Abbie tells him, gently rebuking, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles.

 

            Ichabod raised an eyebrow. “You decided, I don’t remember agreeing.”

 

            Abbie swats at him, frowning, and then gives up trying to be serious and laughs. Her smile is wide, but it trembles at the corners, and her eyes are shiny. “You scared me.”

 

            Ichabod sobers. “I left you alone on the field of battle. That was most discourteous of me. Please, forgive me.”

 

            “That’s not what I mean.” Abbie looks around, but her chair is conspicuously absent, and so she settles on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Ichabod more than necessary. “The battle was over, and we had won. I meant,” she told him, her gaze never leaving his, “that you scared me, fighting Moloch on your own. He was hurting you,” she said stridently, her voice rising in anger. “I watched him wound you over and over,” her fingers traced the three gashes on his chest involuntarily, “and I couldn’t do anything about it! Do you know how that made me _feel_?”

 

            She is crying again, but this is Ichabod, so she doesn’t care. He’s seen her at her worst. “It was like Africa all over again.” Her voice is low and broken, and Ichabod’s throat constricts as he swallows hard.

 

            “Oh, Abbie…”

 

            “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Abbie immediately says, brushing away her tears with a swipe of her fingers and attempting a smile. It falls flat, but Ichabod can read the sentiment beneath: _I don’t want to talk about that again._

 

            He will always respect a lady’s wishes, and so when Abbie asks him, “Did you succeed?” he leans back with a beatific smile.

 

            “She’s free,” Ichabod tells her, “her soul is no longer in the grasp of that demon.” As quickly as it comes, the smile fades, and then the tears are slipping down his face.

 

            In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Abbie is there, her head tucked under his chin, her small warm form against his, wrapping her arms gingerly around his ribs so as not to cause him further pain. Six months ago, as she knelt over her sister’s fallen body and sobbed her anguish, it was Ichabod who wrapped her in his arms and rocked her until she didn’t have any tears or voice left with which to sob. Now, Abbie holds him as he finally vents all the years of anguish and heartache that Katrina’s separation has caused. Mixed with that is the fresh grief that she is gone forever.

 

            “Not forever,” Abbie protests, when some of his heartbroken mumbling reaches her ears. “She’s in the afterlife, isn’t she? She can still come to us in visions?”

 

            “She can,” Ichabod admits slowly, “but in that in-between realm, she was corporeal, and I…” he trails off, his throat tight, and Abbie realizes that there are light scratches on his shoulders, delicate ones that seem too recent and not angry enough to be from a furious demon of Hell. She averts her eyes and tries to ignore the slight push of jealousy in her stomach, concentrating on soothing Ichabod. Much as she had in Africa, all he seems to want at the moment is her presence.

 

            “Katrina promised she would send word and assistance in dreams, if she could,” Ichabod continues when his sobs had faded to shudders. He presses his lips into Abbie’s hair, and she can feel the warmth of his touch radiating from her scalp to her toes. “She told me that Moloch was weakened by our battle, and he will not try to wage war against us until the new year.”

 

            “New Year’s,” Abbie muses, lifting her head to look her partner in the eye. “That’s a month from now. I think our men have earned a month’s break, don’t you?”

 

            Ichabod smiles at her, and his eyes light with that warmth again. “Indeed…they…do,” he agrees, each word punctuated by a yawn.

   

            Moments later, they are both asleep. Irving watches this from his corner of the room, unseen and cloaked by a spell. A large reddish-brown bird of prey sits on his leather-gloved wrist, watching the couple as well. Then Irving is slipping out the door, leaving the two Witnesses to their well-deserved rest.

 

            Ichabod stirs, feeling the shadow of wings over him, the brush of feathers against his cheek, and a beloved voice whispering, _Goodbye, my love._

 

**_SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH-SH_ **

 

            Once in the hallway, Irving turns to the bird on his wrist, keeping the spell woven tightly around him. “Well, you’ve seen him. Are you satisfied now?”

 

            The corporeal manifestation of Katrina Crane’s spirit blinks at him.

 

            Irving snorts and strides towards the door, releasing the spell the moment he is outside. He steps around the corner of the building and stares at the creature who is still sitting on his wrist, making no move to depart.

 

            “I think he’ll be all right,” he tries again. “Abbie will take care of him. Surely you can see that.”

 

            _Splat_. Katrina’s opinion of that narrowly missed landing on his shoe. Irving surveyed the dropping and then the bird. The creature blinked again, somehow managing to convey annoyance.

 

            “All right,” the man chuckled. “So she can’t keep him out of the worst of the trouble. That’s what your warnings are for.”

 

            The bird preens at this, and Irving sobers. “Your spirit is free, Katrina, and your husband is alive and well. What you waiting for?”

 

            The bird fluffs itself up for a moment, then slicks all its feathers down. Irving narrows his eyes. “You’re afraid you won’t be able to protect him as well?”

 

            The bird bobs its head, golden eyes never leaving Irving’s. The man stares back. “You are no longer slave to that demon’s power. You should be in the afterlife right now, mustering angels to Crane’s aid. Your role in this is not yet complete, Katrina Crane. Remember that.”

 

            The bird is still. Then it leans forward and places the tip of its razor-sharp beak in the middle of his forehead; a witch’s benediction. Irving closes his eyes, feeling the talons tighten around his arm. “May the spirits guide you, Katrina Crane,” he whispers, and then thrusts his arm into the air.

 

            There is one powerful downbeat, then two, then the bird is in the air. It circles once, twice, three times, and then it is soaring off into the east. Irving watches it until it is only a speck, and then until it disappears from his sight completely.

 

             As he turns to go back inside, he notices a long red-brown feather on the ground. Picking it up, he tucks it in his pocket, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

 

            _No, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of you, Katrina. Our two Witnesses need all the help they can get._

_Fin_


End file.
